


untitled

by DabblesInCrayon



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Gen, Kaer Morhen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-20 06:04:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15527730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DabblesInCrayon/pseuds/DabblesInCrayon
Summary: A collection of moments where the Kaer Morhen boys, disposable and forgotten, learn to play the hands they're dealt.(Or, Growing Up Witcher And Why That Blows)





	untitled

**Author's Note:**

> Credit to direSin for being my beta on this thing.

“What’s her name again?”

“Who?”

“Who d’ya think? His new girl, idiot.”

“Dunno. Can’t remember.”

“Hmm… ‘VB’ it is, then.”

“Eh?”

“Short for ‘Vesemir’s Bird’.”

Geralt watches as the older boys snicker at whatever is so funny about their joke. He squints against the sun at Eskel and is relieved to find his friend looking as confused as he feels. They share a shrug and a small giggle. Geralt wipes a bead of sweat off his nose.

“Still don’t understand why _V- B-_ ” Corwin emphasizes the new nickname to another round of snickering, “needs to give us all haircuts.”

“They’re always like that, ain’t they?”

“Who?”

“All these lasses of Vesemir’s. Every ploughin' time he brings home a bird, her heart goes bleedin’ at the sight of our sorry faces and she just _has_ to take care of us ‘poor orphan boys’.”

“I’m not an orphan,” Geralt says without thinking. But it’s true, he’s not; Vesemir told him he has a mother, and he thinks he might even have a father.

The older boys turn to see who’s talking; it’s like they forgot he and Eskel were there, standing at the back of the line like always.

“Ya might as well be, though.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No!”

“Yes! Who’s comin’ for ya at the end of all this, then, eh?”

That knocks enough air out of him to shut him up. A hush falls over the group and Geralt tries his best to look unfazed. He pretends not to see the regret on Corwin’s face or the pity in Sigfrid's eyes. Not much conversation happens as whoever's at the front of the cue gets his turn to go into the keep, and the rest of the line shuffles one collective step forward. He feels Eskel patting him on the back, trying to catch his eye in that ‘Are you okay, bestie?’ sort of way, but he blinks and ignores him.

To distract himself, he tilts his head to get a better view of the line. He starts to count how many boys are still ahead of him and Eskel – three, four, eight, ni- a _lot_ – when he sees Oliver come bounding out of the castle. The oldest boy’s new do doesn’t look half bad and he’s wearing a pretty big grin, but he leaves a trail of hair clippings like a larch tree at the turn of autumn. Geralt imagines how itchy that’ll feel and he kicks his toes in the dirt, still unhappy about this whole haircut thing.

“Took you long enough!” someone shouts from the cue.

“Worth it!” Oliver announces with the importance of someone with a delicious secret. He waits until all eyes are on him, which isn’t long; everybody worships him. “Vesemir says to go clean off in the lake… and not to come back ‘til supper!”

Excited gasps burst from up and down the line. Eskel and Geralt turn to each other, their eyes bright and their grins wide; Eskel’s practically clapping his hands. This was a great surprise.

“ _Swimming day_!”

––––-------–––

It’s well past midday and only three boys have gotten their cuts. Impossibly, the cue looks even longer than before. Geralt rubs the back of his neck where the sun has beaten it pink and itchy, his skin already tight and uncomfortable. He’s sure it’ll start hurting tomorrow and peeling the day after, and a realization hits him like a block of ice. He whips his head around to Eskel.

“What if we do all this waiting and we don’t get our turn before supper?” he asks like it’s the worst thought in the world, because right now, it kind of is.

Eskel glances between him and the line, looking a touch worried himself. “Vesemir wouldn’t let that happen,” he says in a way that convinces absolutely nobody.

Desperation starts to claw at Geralt’s belly. “Sure he would. And we won’t get to go swimming. We’re gonna stand in the sun all day and we _won’t even get to go swimming_!” The idea of this injustice is too much for Geralt to swallow, and it seems to frighten Eskel equally. The lake is really far away but Geralt swears he can hear the sound of laughing and splashing. He’d give anything to be there right now with the big boys and he knows his friend would, too. “Eskel,” he pleads, “we need to do something!”

“Like what?”

“I dunno. Anything that’ll get us to the lake!”

“Well, we can’t skip out on the haircut. Vesemir’ll notice and I don’t wanna do buckets again.”

“Yeah, but… We still need to do something. We can’t miss swimming day, we just can’t!”

“I know, I know. Alright, let’s see…” 

They put their heads together, Eskel furrowing his brows and Geralt tapping a finger on his chin. He’s seen grown-ups do this when they’re thinking real hard, so maybe that’s what he’s supposed to do, too. And it works like magic.

“I’ve got it!” he whispers excitedly. “Shh, come closer, Eskel. Closer, more. Okay, what if…” he pauses both for drama and to hold back a giggle; he’s pretty proud of this idea. “What if we cut our own hair?”

Eskel draws in a sharp breath and stuffs his hands against his mouth to muffle a laugh. “Ohhhh that’s good.”

“And we can go straight to the lake after.”

“And nobody’ll know the difference.”

“And we can swim for _hours_!”

“Yes!” 

Their glee bubbles dangerously at this marvelous plan and the co-conspirators struggle to contain their laughter; Eskel’s just about bouncing on his feet. Some of the older boys turn away from a game of pick-up sticks to look at them. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing!” Eskel shouts way too loudly, his face red like someone caught in a lie, which, fair point. But lie or not, Geralt isn’t about to let anyone get in the way of his day at the lake. Not even Honest Eskel. “We just, um, we… have…”

“We have to take a massive shit! C’mon, Eskel!” He grabs his friend by the shirtsleeve and darts into the woods, finally letting the giggles spill out.

––––-------–––

“Ow!”

“What’s wrong? Did you cut yourself?”

“No, I just keep pulling my hair. My blade’s not very sharp.” Eskel throws down his hands and slumps. “Geralt, I don’t know if this is a good idea anymore.”

“Sure it is! Here, we’ll use my dagger.”

“It’s sharp?”

Geralt grabs a fistful of his long hair, pulls it taut, and pushes his blade through it easily. He holds out the clippings to Eskel as answer.

“Okay, but… Can you do mine for me?”

“Why? Cuz you can’t see what you’re doing?”

“Yeah. And I can do yours for you if you want.”

“Mmm… That’s okay. I’ll do both of ours.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. I have more experience with blades, but don’t worry, you’ll get there someday.”

“Thanks, buddy.”

“Of course.”

He sets out to work on Eskel first, examining his canvas. His friend’s hair is already pretty short; if he only takes off a little, Vesemir might not see that he got a cut at all and he’d still get in trouble. The only way about this is to go big, real big. “I’m gonna take off a lot, okay?”

“Okay, Geralt,” Eskel says without missing a beat.

“Hold still.” He starts from the top of Eskel’s head, grabbing as much hair as his grip will allow, then pulling and shearing it near the roots. He offers the clippings to Eskel as a souvenir but his friend shakes his head. “Hold still, will you?”

“Sorry.”

He continues his ministrations, proud of how easily this comes to him. Grab, pull, snip. Grab, pull, snip. “You should really keep your blade sharp, you know.” Grab, pull, snip.

“Yeah, I know.” Snip, snip.

“One time in herbalism class – here, turn around; that’s good – one time in herbalism class, Vesemir did a surprise check on our blades.” Grab, pull, snip.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Snip. “And a bunch of us failed.”

“Even you?”

“Yup, even me. Got – hold still – got a huge long lecture about swordcare. ‘A witcher can forget to eat, drink, and breathe, but a witcher never, ever forgets to care for his blade’.”

“I s’pose that makes sense.”

“It does, but it was still annoying as hell.”

“At least you didn’t get buckets.”

“Oh, we got buckets.” That gets a snort out of Eskel. Geralt takes two final snips. “Okay, I think you’re done.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it!” He admires his handiwork, feeling mighty pleased with his blade skills. Maybe he’ll make a good witcher, after all. “Nice and easy.”

“Thanks, Geralt.”

“You’re welcome, buddy. Now it’s my turn.” He pictures his hair in his mind’s eye and decides he wants to do something cool with it, something that’ll make even the older boys jealous. “This is gonna be great.”

––––-------–––

“Shut up, Wes!”

“Mate,” is all Wes can manage to wheeze out before he’s back in stitches, floundering in the water and at risk of drowning. He and Henrik drag themselves to the shore so they can properly double over, their stupid faces so red that Geralt hopes they suffocate.

“I said shut _up_!" he yells with a stomp. "Stop laughing, all of you!”

Eskel touches his hands to his head in a few places. “Is it that bad?” he asks with a small smile, which makes Geralt’s eyes burn holes through him. Eskel doesn’t notice.

Oliver, being the most mature, pulls himself together enough to form some words, although his voice is still shaking. “Boys, c’mere. C- come look.” He waves them over to the shallows, choking back clucks of amusement. Eskel ambles towards him, leaving Geralt to glare daggers on his own. “Here, lad. Take a look at yerself.”

Geralt watches as his friend takes one glance at his reflection before he’s clutching his belly and howling. His reaction causes the older boys – even Oliver – to lose it all over again. Them _bastards_ are hysterical now, rolling around and taking turns pointing to Eskel’s head, laughing at it.

Laughing at _him_.

His eyes start to sting and his nails dig into his palms. “Shut up. Shut up! _Shut the fuck up_ , all of you!”

“Geralt-”

“No! Leave me alone!”

“Geralt, come back!”

“No!

“Ger-”

“Leave me _alone_ , Eskel!”

Branches snag at his trousers and shirt and cut at his cheeks but he’s too angry to stop running, and it’s not until he’s deep in the woods, breathing fast and lungs sore, that he notices that the boys did finally shut up. Not like it matters anymore.

He beats the hell out of a tree to keep from crying.

––––-------–––

“There you are.”

Geralt ignores the voice and keeps his head plastered to his arms, his eyes absently tracing the outlines of the nighttime trees.

“You gave us quite a fright. Your friend Errol is worried sick about you.”

“Eskel. And he’s not my friend anymore.”

There’s some rustling next to him and he hears the sound of a bum hitting the dirt, gentle and soft-like. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hoots.

“You must be Geralt?”

He grunts. What a stupid question.

“Do you know my name, Geralt?”

He doesn’t give it much thought. “VB?”

“Sorry?”

“...Vesemir’s Bird?”

She snorts prettily and runs her hand down what’s left of his hair. He flinches at the touch but doesn’t brush it away. “Did the big boys call me that?”

“Yes.”

“Figures. Geralt, you mustn’t refer to women as ‘birds’.”

“Why not?”

“Because we, to the utter shock of our male counterparts, are actual people. Yes, it’s quite incredible I know, but rather than flittering feathered animals, women are in fact the sisters and daughters and mothers of our species.”

He turns to look at her, at her features cast in dark blues and greys. She looks like she can be all three of those things. Maybe a little young for a mother, but it’s possible. “Which one are you?”

“I’m only a daughter for now.”

“Oh. Why aren’t you with your parents, then?”

She strokes his hair again and he finds he doesn’t…doesn’t really want her to stop. “Father’s dead and my mother’s too religious. ‘Melitele this, Melitele that.’ I’d absolutely no freedom, so I ran away.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place. We don’t have a religion here.” Geralt returns to glaring at nothing. “But it sucks here.”

“Why’s that?”

He doesn’t want to respond at first, but there’s something about talking to a woman that makes it feel…okay to say things. Like, inside-the-heart things. He lets out a shaky sigh. “Because nobody here understands you, or cares about you.”

“Nobody?”

“Nobody,” he nods, his nose starting to sting. “We- we might as well be orphans here.”

He’s not sure what kind of response to expect from her. He’s never talked like this to anyone before; Vesemir would probably tell him to man up and go polish his sword or something, and the other boys would definitely laugh at him, or call him names, or just...ignore him.

A tremor of loneliness starts to whirr in his chest when VB puts her arm around him, pulls him tight to her, and rubs shapes on his back. He wants to push away because this is too much, he doesn’t wanna do this, _feel this much_ , but it’s too late. Something breaks inside him and his eyes are streaming now and raw and his breaths are long and watery, and his hands clutch at this woman’s shirt so hard he’s probably ruining it, but he can’t stop. The sobs keep welling up and tearing out of his throat and he feels like a leather band that’s snapped and can never be mended again, like this awful sadness will eat him alive from the inside out and he’ll never know how to be _him_ again, that he’s broken now, just broken and he’ll stay broken forever.

But eventually it passes. Eventually his lungs slow to the point where he’s just hiccuping, his eyes feel poofy and painful but stop running. Eventually he can bring himself to lift his face, wet and sticky and a little bit gross, out of VB’s shirt. Eventually he’s able to look around and know that he’s still here, that he’s still him, that he’s still whole. He tries for big sniffle but his nose is so clogged it sounds like sawing wood, so he takes a fat, wet wipe of his sleeve instead.

VB’s let go of him by now but she still has one hand on his back, still rubbing circles on it. He has no idea why but he’s so grateful that she does. “Better?”

He takes a breath, long and slow, and lets it out. And he does feel better. “Yeah.” He takes a look at her shirt, points to the stretch marks and the snot globs and says, “Sorry about that.”

She chuckles, light like fresh spring water, and moves her hand to his hair again. He leans into it. His chest feels lighter – about a hundred pounds lighter – and he can’t quite believe it but he thinks he might even smile tonight if he’s given a good enough reason.

“Remember this feeling, Geralt. No matter what happens, you will always feel better.”

He closes his eyes. He’s so tired all of a sudden, so sleepy. But he doesn’t want to go back yet – to the castle, to any of it – not yet.

“We can stay here until the other boys have gone to bed, if you’d like.”

That smile does come. “Okay,” he nods. She pulls his head onto her shoulder and he lets her. She’s warm and soft and smells like herbs and wildflowers, like balms, like healing. “Thank you.”

“Any time, child.”

He’s just about drifted off when he realizes he needs to ask the question because he, well, he has to know. “So, um…”

“Yes, Geralt?”

He breathes with his heart in his throat for a while before he rushes it out, quick and quiet and wrapped in all of his nerves. “You’re not my mother, right?”

He feels her squeeze him tight. When she answers, her voice is sad but so full of tenderness that he doesn’t really mind that she says, “No, child.”

  


  


––––-------–––

(Chapter title from "Alone" by Edgar Allen Poe.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for making it here. Please leave whatever you feel is appropriate =)


End file.
